


Debts are Paid

by LMT



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: mind the whip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-09 15:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10414983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMT/pseuds/LMT
Summary: For three days after the barricade fell, all was in limbo.  Marius lay alive and not alive; Cosette's prayers were answered and not answered.  And Valjean roamed from room to room restlessly - free, but not free.On the fourth morning all changed abruptly: Javert appeared on his doorstep.





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**  This fic came about because I was listening to the suicide lyrics and thought: " _no way_ to go on" - really?  You couldn't think of _one single way_?  I bet there are lots of ways.

So this is one: Javert comes up with something a little unorthodox.  No violence in this part, but there's a bit in later chapters. 

* * *

For three days after the barricade fell, all was in limbo.  Marius lay alive and not alive; Cosette's prayers were answered and not answered.  And Valjean roamed from room to room restlessly - free, but not free.

On the fourth morning all changed abruptly: Javert appeared on his doorstep.

“So this _is_ your address,” the inspector said.  “Good.  Come with me.”

That was all he said: _come with me._  Calmly and without inflection.  But it was enough to write disaster, and Valjean had to lean on the door frame for support.  He could not take a full breath.  “Wait,” he pleaded, knowing it was no use to plead.  “Just, let me say goodbye to Cosette first.  Please.”

“What?”  Javert scowled at him.  “No, I didn't mean it that way.  I want you to come with me for an errand - I want to show you something.  That's all.  You'll be back here shortly.”

The door frame felt firm and solid under his hands; he hung on.  “Javert.  You're not bringing me...?”

“To a police station?  To a prison?  No.”  Javert pursed his lips.  “I am bringing you to my home.  I mean you no harm.”  His tone was of irritation rather than reassurance.  “So compose yourself, and come along.”

Valjean came along.  It took him most of the walk to compose himself; his heart hammered every time they passed a policeman, but by the time they reached their destination he believed himself to be calm.

They had not spoken a word to each other.  Javert broke the silence only as he opened his door.  “In here.  I have something to show you.”   He guided Valjean into the room with a hand on the small of his back. 

Javert's hand was clammy and unsteady - which was completely destabilizing; Valjean had never known Javert to be unsteady.

He stepped in, looked around to see a basin, a chair, a table-.

His eyes arrested on the thing atop the table, sitting all by itself, so alien and out of place he could scarcely recognize it, so memorable he could not fail to recognize it, no matter where it was.

Knotted, tarred rope.  A handle.  Old bloodstains.

He recoiled, and fetched up hard against a wall behind him.  Not a wall: Javert.

He closed his eyes.  Covered them with his hands.  “Javert, why do you have a lash on your table?” he asked into the darkness, amazed at the soft steadiness of his voice.

Javert sighed.  “Relax,” he ordered.  “Didn't I say you have nothing to fear?  I only have a question.”

The hand returned to his back, moving him further into the room, into a chair.  He sat, still covering his face, and flinched when Javert let go of him.  Flinched again at the clink of Javert taking up a pitcher of water, over by the window.

He heard the glass fill up.  “What question.”

“It's more than one, actually.”  He could hear the sounds of Javert drinking.  When the drink was finished, the tightness in Javert's voice sounded more like irritation than nerves.  “Come, you can't look at me?”

“Give me a moment.”  Finally he made himself open his eyes.  Javert had taken off his coat, but otherwise all was as it had been: the table was arm's length in front of him and the hideous artifact was still on it.  He didn't move his seat away.  “All right: what.”

“My thanks.  This is difficult enough already.”  Javert toyed with the cup in his hand, then put it aside and stood straight.  “I see you remember that tool.”

“Of course I remember it.”  He glanced down despite himself, and tried not to remember.  He had a terrible thought.  “Javert - that's not one - the particular specimen, that-...?”

Javert frowned.  “The-?  Oh-!  No,” he assured.  “No, it's not... one that was ever... no.  I got this from another place, another time.  I have no reason to think it's one you've seen before.”

“Good.  Thank you.”  He relaxed.  Why it should bother him that the stains might be his own blood as opposed to some other unfortunate's was a mystery, but bother him it did. 

“It's that bad.”  It took Valjean a moment to even understand the words as a question.

“It's-?  Yes,” he said simply.  “It's that bad.”

“Mm.”  Javert turned and moved across the room - pacing, Valjean realized.  Hands clasped behind his back.  “And they whipped you for attempting escape.”

He was a beat behind again; it was only when Javert turned with arched eyebrows that he recognized he had again been questioned.

“They-, yes.  Among other things.”

“What did they give you, for attempting an escape.  You meaning generally.  Convicts.”

He swallowed.  “Surely you remember.  The rules were yours to enforce.”

“And they were yours to live.  Surely _you_ remember.”  Javert reached the end of the room, turned again, and started back.  “What did they give you for attempting escape?”

This time it was discernibly a question.  “It-, it depended.  They would- they could, they could charge you with different things.”  Why should Javert want to make him recount this? 

“If the conduct was egregious?”

“Fifty lashes,” he said quietly. 

“You?”

“I don't remember.”  That was a lie: he knew that _one_ of the times, at least, he had had fifty and kept his senses til the end.  The wet noise of _forty-seven_ in particular had never left him.

“Mm.”  If Javert heard the lie, he didn't comment on it.  “And what was the penalty for-  aiding and abetting an escape?”

A tiny, _tiny_ hitch in Javert's speech explained everything, suddenly, all at once.  “Javert...”

He stopped and turned again.  “What.  Was it.”

Valjean wished he could look away.  “Also fifty,” he said quietly.

Javert resumed his pacing - looking at the floor.  “Do you now understand why I've brought you here?”

“I understand that you've taken leave of your senses,” Valjean said.  “We should get you some water and put you to bed.”

“I have had water,” Javert answered absently, before returning to his madness.  “Justice will not be denied.  _You_ have done nothing wrong for a change; you were let go, _I_ let you go, the police let you go.  You owe nothing now.  But I?”  His voice was hard.  “I owe.”

“No.”

Javert whipped around, chin raised.  “Who are you to tell me no?”

That cold arrogant anger Valjean well remembered.  He tried to soothe.  “Of course, you're right, it's not my place.  I cannot tell you that what you're suggesting is barbarity, not justice, that it's cruel and pointless and would endanger your life.  It's not my place to tell you that - though I tell you anyway, because apparently you're having some fit where you can't remember these things for yourself.  But you're right: I can't tell you no.”  He felt oddly calm when the time finally came to take a stand.  “But I can tell you I do not condone it and I will have no part in it myself.”

“Condone or not, as you please – no one ever asked whether _I_ did! – but you will cooperate.  You have no say in what happens to-.”  He winced visibly.  “Your confederate.”

Despite the gravity, even horror, of the situation, Javert's expression made him smile.  “Javert, I can see that you are suffering,” he soothed, in the most serious tone he could muster.  “Call it _justice,_ if you will, but recognize that your turmoil is punishment enough, and be satisfied.”  He looked down to the table, reached out, and actually touched the thing with his hand.  “Because I will not take up this weapon and strike you.  I will not.”

“You will.”  When he still shook his head, Javert snorted at him.  “Come, has Jean the Jack gone soft?  You're man enough to take it, but you can't dish it out?  _Bullshit._ ”

Valjean knew he was being provoked intentionally, but with his nerves already frayed, and the terrible instrument coiled on the table, and Javert prowling... he felt calm slipping away from him.  “It's _you_ I'm concerned for, you fool.  You have no idea what you're asking for.”

“I've seen.” 

Valjean held eye contact as he leaned over and spat on the floor.  “That's for your _seen_.”

Javert held up a hand.  “You're right: you know, and I don't.”  He shook his head.  “But it doesn't matter.  My mind is made up, and I _will_ have justice.  If not from you then from elsewhere – and that would mean explaining what I've done.  That would end badly for you.”

He froze.  “Javert...”

“My mind is made up.”

He could cast around for other arguments, but what good would they do?  He and Javert had argued many times over the years, and never once had one of them managed to convince the other.  Whoever had the power to decide, simply decided. 

His freedom was in Javert's hands; he had no illusions about where the power was now.  He stood up.  “Is there a basement here?”

* * *

**TBC.**

Next part is largely finished and will probably be up this weekend.  Let me know what you think so far!

Also: Other than a little cursory googling, I know nothing about the specifics of their corporal punishment – equipment, sentencing, etc.  If you know better and I’m way off base, go ahead and correct me.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Javert moved as if in a dream.  He saw Valjean stand up from his chair and close his fingers round the handle.  He felt himself nod and jerk his chin in the direction of the door.  He saw Valjean come towards him, and reflex had him pull away before they could actually touch.

His head was light and his legs were shaky; during the two flights down he nearly fell three times.  Twice he caught himself alone, but the third time a strong hand grabbed him from behind and helped steady him on his feet.  “Careful,” Valjean said roughly.  “Everyone's knees weaken here.”

By _everyone_ he meant _every criminal_.  The thought was hard.  _I should be marched to the post in irons, like the rest of them._

When they reached the cellar Valjean hunched over the lantern.  “We'll need more light.  You realize I've never done this before; I am no expert; I need to see.”  The lash was draped around his neck, easily, as if it belonged there.  Even against the convict's broad shoulders, it looked enormous.

Javert watched it hang, remembering the blood and screams it drew when let fly. 

Valjean looked up to see him staring, and snapped: “Light.  Unless you've thought better of this madness?”

Javert shook his head.  “Don't ask me again,” he said - and it was half a plea.  “There should be another lantern over there we can take.”  He pointed, and while Valjean went he started to undress himself.  His fingers trembled almost too hard to manage the buttons, and finally Valjean said: “I could always just rip your clothes off.  That's what they did to us if we dallied.”

Valjean was right, and he deserved no better.  He let his hands fall to his sides, nodding permission, but when his shirt was grabbed he closed his eyes and turned his face away.

But Valjean unbuttoned him gently.  “Never mind; a beating is misery enough.”

When he was bare to the waist he shivered.  “Where should I stand?”

Valjean blew hair out of his eyes and surveyed the space.  “Over there.  Brace your hands against the wall.”

Javert had no memory of crossing the room, or even of arranging himself before the wall.  The next thing he knew were Valjean's arms - around his hips.

He jerked.  “What are you-”

“Shut up.”  Valjean was opening his belt buckle, and before he could even find the words for protest, had pulled the belt off entirely.  And was holding it to his face.  “Bite.”

He shifted to take the leather in his hand.  “Why?  I don't-”

“We're in a small space and I have no wish to be deafened by your screams.”

 _I won't scream,_ he wanted to say.

“Yes you will,” Valjean said, curt.  “Now listen.  You'll have twenty-five strokes.”

He frowned.  “Twenty-five?  You know that it's-”

“No more than twenty-five at once!” Valjean barked.  “Or else you'll certainly need a hospital.  And there goes the secrecy you promised me.”

Twenty-five _at once_.  He swallowed.  “We'll do this again.”  He meant it as a question, but his voice was flat and strange.

“We'll do it as many times as you like, Javert, until your compulsion is satisfied.”  He sounded impatient.  “Now, you want to be treated like a criminal?”  He tugged the lash from his neck with a flourish.  “Then start following orders, or I'll kick your teeth in _before_ the whipping starts!  You hear me?”

His stomach twisted.  But-... this was right.  He nodded.

“Good!  Now: bite.”

He doubled the belt and put it between his teeth.  Immediately it grew wet with drool; he didn't know how to arrange it with his tongue; he felt foolish.  He turned back to the wall.

“Brace your hands,” Valjean said, cold and even now.

He did as he was told.  Bowed his head.

“Lashes belong on your back.  If I hit you in the face or the ribs or otherwise miss my target, you're to speak up so that I can make adjustments.  Is that clear?”

He nodded. 

“Otherwise keep your mouth shut; screams annoy me.  Twenty-five.  I will count.   _One._ ”

 

* * *

 

“Hey.  Get up.”  Valjean nudged the bloody heap with his boot; it stirred only weakly.  “Come on, I'll help you.  Get up.”  He knelt and lifted – knowing to grasp low around the hips because the waist was too near to the damage.  “Arm over my shoulders, come on,” he murmured, dragging it around himself.  “Stand up.  Walk it off.”

He stood, bearing almost all the body’s weight himself until it got its feet underneath it, and roused itself enough to speak.  “My head is spinning.”

“Come with me and we’ll get you taken care of.  Can you walk?”  He tugged forward.

Javert took a halting step with him.

“Good.  Can you walk up stairs?”

“I have to, don’t I.”  He stumbled along well enough until halfway up the first flight, at which point he announced: “I’m fainting.”

“If you faint on the stairs I’ll drop you,” Valjean snarled immediately – but renewed his grip around Javert’s middle; he knew he would do no such thing.

Javert’s free hand was grasping at the railing, dragging along the wall.  “I didn't expect such difficulty.”

If he meant it as an apology, it was inadequate.  “Didn't you?” Valjean snapped.  “I thought you’re supposed to be so intelligent.”  He kicked the basement door open and dragged Javert out onto solid ground.  “It’s another flight to get to your room.  Will you make it?”

Javert hung his head.  Sweat dripped off him.  “You’ve done this before,” he growled.  “You tell me.”

He wished he did not remember, but the pain and exhaustion were hard to forget.  “Weakness is expected when muscles have been pounded to jelly,” he said.  He adjusted their positioning for the next effort.  “I won’t let you fall.  I should, but I won’t.”

“Thank you.”

He didn’t say _you’re welcome;_ Javert was not welcome to any of this.  He hauled him up all the way to his room and helped with the door.  Javert lurched in and leaned on the table, breathing heavily, eyeing the water pitcher.  Half his hair had escaped its tie, and was stuck to his face with sweat (tears?).  When he noticed Valjean staring, he panted “What?” and flicked a strand out of his mouth with his finger.

“Nothing.  It’s just that in all the years I’ve known you I have never seen you so-.”  _Human._   “-…Disheveled.  Can I help you?”

Javert looked again to the water pitcher.  It was out of reach; he would need to straighten up and take a step to it.  “Get me a drink,” he said.  “I’ll put myself in order again in a minute.”

 _You most certainly will not._ But Valjean poured for him without comment, and hovered nearby while he drank.  Afterwards he helped him to his bed, without asking permission, and settled him face down.  He was _just_ about to break the silence, to ask the whereabouts of cloth for bandages, when Javert spoke up.

“Thank you,” he said, “For returning me up here.  You’ve discharged your duty.  You may go.”

It was plainly a dismissal, but Valjean stood his ground.  “I would rather not.”  He was a little surprised to realize that he could admit to it without any embarrassment.  “I found this all to be very distressing, and I think that tending you now might help to soothe me.”  Javert stirred, but didn’t speak.  “Even in the _bagne_ we were not left alone with our wounds festering.  Let me.”

“Very well.  Do what you like,” Javert said at last, muffled in his blankets.  “I am hardly conscious enough to care.”

Valjean found cloths and water and began to work on the wounds.  Fortunately the sight did not bother him, nor the feel of slippery, bloody skin beneath his fingers as he arranged what had torn.  He had seen worse.

Javert, it seemed, had _not_ seen worse; he whimpered and squirmed even when repeatedly admonished to hold still.

When he had gone as far as cloths and water would take him, Valjean sighed and sat back.  “This needs something.”

He heard a mutter that might have been a swear word.  Then: “Brine?”

“We can do better than that.  Stay here; I'll go to a shop.”

Javert turned his head wearily.  “You know I don’t have the money for fancy medicines.”

“You know I do.”  He steeled himself for a fight about not accepting charity from a convict, but none came.

“Change your shirt,” Javert said instead.  “Call _me_ disheveled?  It looks like you killed someone.  And we don’t want you arrested now of all times.”  He raised an arm, with much wincing, to point at a wardrobe in the corner.

So he found himself rummaging through Javert’s closet.  Some of what was there – a coat, a stick – made him shudder.  Worse, he could smell the inspector on all of it, which put him on edge, but he wasn’t in a mood to be mocked for his animal senses and so he yanked out a shirt without comment.

“You have scars,” Javert said while he was changing.

“Hm?  Oh.  Yes.”  He turned to face him while buttoning up.  “You may not.  Your skin’s not so fair, and you’ll have ointments.  And this wasn’t a bad beating anyway.”

Javert laughed without mirth.  “Of course.  What’s pain without a dash of humiliation?”

“I wasn’t-… never mind.”  It must not be bad at all, if Javert was already able to think of his pride and take offense.  The way _he_ remembered it, he hadn’t spared a thought for anything besides the misery of his body until at least the next day.  “I'll be back.  Stay where you are.”

“Where would I _go_.”  Sulky and petulant.

Javert had annoyed him once too often, it seemed; he found himself unable to let him have the last word.  “I don't know - where did you go last time?”  he snapped.  “The other night I went up to put my affairs in order, and I came back, as I promised - and you were gone.”  _And I was confused, and terrified, and I've spent three days not knowing which side is up._   He kept that to himself.

“Would you rather I'd stayed, and brought you in?”  Javert rolled to his side, facing away.  “You don't want to know where I went.  What I almost did.”  He shifted as if looking for a comfortable position.  “If I'd gone through with it, I would have spared you this little chore entirely.  But I didn't, and here I am.  My apologies for that.”

 _Gone through with it_?

He could mean only one thing, and Valjean went cold at the thought.

“Are you still there?”  Javert twisted to look over his shoulder without touching his wounds to the bed.  “You are gaping like a fish.  Go away.”

“Go-?  But-.”  He swallowed.  “Promise me you'll be here when I come back.  Promise me you will not-... you will _never_ do what you almost did.  Javert...”

“I am not going anywhere.”  He settled down.  “I can't.  I still have half a beating to contend with, remember?”

* * *

**TBC.**

I’ll have the next bit up in another day or two.  Let me know what you think so far!


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks had passed, the salve had run out and his strength returned, when finally Javert could see no open wounds when he craned into the mirror.  Saltwater drizzled over his shoulder didn’t burn.  It was time.

What he felt was eagerness.  He made an effort to remember that the pain would be bad, so that he would not be unprepared for it, but the thought made little impression. 

He went that very day to Valjean’s home, and greeted him with just a nod.  “I am ready,” he said.

Valjean cleared his throat.  “Good day to you too.  Come in.”

He followed Valjean inside, impatient.  What possible reason could there be for pleasantries between them?  “You insisted I leave time for healing,” he said.  “I have done that, and it has healed.  Now we proceed.”

Valjean drew himself up and crossed his arms.  “Show me,” he ordered.

His usual practice was to disrobe neatly, fold what he took off, lay it over a chair.  This time, though, he pulled his shirt off the way he had seen Valjean do in his room: fast and without dignity, no doubt habit formed by years of stripping on orders.

If Valjean noticed his attitude, he didn’t comment.  All he said was: “Turn around.”

He obeyed.  His skin prickled with the cold, but he felt the beginnings of a sweat.  It took a conscious effort to keep his head high.

Valjean stepped close to him.  Put a hand on his bare shoulder and leaned close to inspect.  Then: “No.”

“No?”  He tore away and faced him furiously.  “Do not mother me.  The wounds have all healed, I am more than fit to-”

“I said no!”  Valjean seized him by the arm and spun him back around.  “ _This_ is barely closed!” he snarled, jabbing hard.  “And this.  And this.  You can’t see them, they’re behind you; but I assure you they are there.  And _here._   And here.”  Javert bit his lip against the painful prodding.

… but cried out when Valjean suddenly dealt him a brutal open-handed slap.  “ _Ah-!_ Why?” he yelped.  The fiery pain was unbelievable.  “Valjean – really!”  He contorted to try and rub it away, blinking back tears.  But contorting awoke soreness all over.

“See?” Valjean said, impassive, watching him squirm.  “You are still healing, tender everywhere, and you’ll split and damage more severely than you’re expecting.  You’ll faint even faster than last time.  Is that what you want?  Maybe it is,” he added after a moment, with a calculated sneer.  “If you faint early, I’ll stop early.” 

Before he could argue, Valjean repeated the attack – suddenly, and in precisely the same place.

“ _Mmmn!_ ” This time he kept his mouth closed, but animal sound escaped anyway.  He rubbed at himself involuntarily, and by the time he had enough control to be still, Valjean had bent and picked up the shirt he had thrown down in his tantrum.

“Here.”  Maddeningly kind now.  “Wait another two weeks.  I promise you’ll get your whipping, much good may it do you, but you need to exercise a little patience.”

“Please.  Do it.  I- I beg you.”  He had heard endless begging over his years on the job, but now, when he tried to produce some himself, he found he did not know what to say.  “Please.”

“You have my promise, but you have to wait.”  Still kind, but Javert knew inflexibility when he heard it.  He gave up and took the shirt without any more argument.

As he dressed, he tried to explain himself.  “What I did merits punishment - I have a debt.”

 _So?_ Valjean’s face said clearly.  But aloud, he was more diplomatic.  “I know that that is your view, and I am trying to indulge it.  Safely and discreetly.”

“I can’t rest until justice has been done.”                                                           

Valjean gave a harsh laugh.  “Believe me, I know.”

He heard Valjean’s meaning and ignored it.  “It tortures me to think that I now undermine what I’ve always worked so hard for,” he went on.  “I’m defaulting, where I’ve always insisted that others pay up.”  Oddly enough, confessing before Jean Valjean of all people did not feel exposing or filthy; it felt like relief.  He continued to unburden himself.  “I am at loose ends – all I was has been called into question.  I don’t even know myself.  I am struggling through every day; I have no peace.”

“And you expect to find peace once you’ve discharged your so-called debt.”  Valjean’s doubt was palpable, but he kept any commentary to himself.

“Yes.”  Javert finished buttoning. 

“Is it peace you can _live_ with?”

There was a warning in the tone, and at that moment, for the first time, Javert remembered what he had admitted on their last meeting.  He had made allusion to that thing he had almost done.  “Yes,” he said, but Valjean still waited, as if for explanation.  He took a breath and tried to provide it.  “For a time, that night, I thought there was no way to go on.  But then I thought of this.”  He shrugged, feeling shy suddenly, looking away.  “Admittedly it’s not perfect, it’s a token, but it was a way out of an impasse and I took it.”  He forced his eyes up off the floor.

Valjean’s look was deep and searching.  “I see,” he said at last.  “Well, as much as I may dislike this particular token you’ve chosen, I am glad you thought of something.”

“Yet you are requiring me to wait two more weeks.”  It seemed like an eternity.

Valjean nodded.  And then clapped him on the shoulder.  “Javert, I envy you.  Most men would give their right arm for the promise of peace in two weeks.”

He knew he was being made fun of, and did not understand why, and did not care.  “Two weeks,” he said again, and left. 

* * *

**TBC.**

**One more part.  That one’s got some actual beating in it, so if you’re super sensitive to violence you might want to close your eyes for the first half.  Let me know what you think!**


	4. Chapter 4

On the appointed day Valjean went to Javert's apartment without waiting to be summoned.  Javert, it seemed, was expecting him: he was already naked to the waist, hair tied back, pacing anxiously.

“Now?” Javert demanded, turning to show.

He had already decided that he would proceed regardless of the inspector's condition; Javert had taken delay badly last time and there was no telling what he might do if put off again.  He stepped close and examined anyway, memorizing the placement of the lingering marks so that he would be better able to avoid aggravating them even in the near-dark of the basement.

“Yes, now.”  He touched the side of Javert's neck.  “Last time you were struck here.  That should not happen.  You move too much.  Do you have any handcuffs?”  He said it casually, in hopes that it would not offend.

“No.”  Javert's voice was icy; he plainly meant _you will not shackle me_ rather than _I don't have shackles_.  “I will hold still.  And if I don’t, it's my own fault if I get it in the face.”

Valjean shrugged.  “We'll just position you somewhere else; the wall didn't give you anything to hold on to.  Come on.”  He snatched the weapon from the table with much less hesitation than last time - Javert was not the only one who would be glad to put this ordeal behind him! - and led the way to the stairs.

The descent was silent.  Javert's breathing was a little too fast, but close-mouthed and even at least.  This time he didn't trip.

In the basement, Javert occupied himself with the lighting while Valjean looked for a more suitable place to stand.  There was a pillar.  A big nail jutted out close to the ceiling; Valjean removed what was hanging there and looped his belt over it instead.  “Come here,” he said.  “Like this.”  He demonstrated, arms around the pillar, grasping the leather in both hands.  But he let go quickly when he felt Javert step up behind him; the position forced an unpleasant feeling of helplessness and vulnerability.

Javert took his place, wrapping his hands in the belt and holding tight.  “Very well.  Go on.”

“All right.”  He stepped back and stretched out his shoulder.  “We'll begin where we left off - which I'm sorry to tell you was not quite twenty-five.  You collapsed.”  For his own part he would have been glad to skip ahead, but in case Javert remembered that they had not finished, he did not want to get caught in a lie.

Javert hissed.  “This time finish it,” he ordered, “Whatever happens.”

That was not a promise he was willing to make, so he just took aim and said "Twenty-three" and began.

Even when wielded without much strength, the tarred rope was fearsome.  Valjean well remembered the hot, harsh pain of the earliest few lashes.  When the skin began to tear, though, and rope cracked against wet wounds… the agony of that was something he never again wanted to call to mind. 

Almost from the start Javert was jerking and writhing – and noisy; they had forgotten to make him bite on something to keep quiet.  Valjean set a slow pace and allowed long moments of rest, less out of kindness than necessity: he was aware that lashes in quick succession could render a victim unconscious.  But as the writhing grew more frenzied and the noises more loud, he began to worry that despite his precautions, Javert was going to lose consciousness anyway.  “That was just eight, and you have twenty to go.  Do you want a drink?”

Javert shook his head.  “I am fine,” he gasped.  “Go on.”

“You're concerning me.  You look-”

“ _You know how much this fucking hurts!_ ”  Javert all but shouted at him.  “Do I have to put on a damned _show_ as well?  Fine – _fine_!”  He stood straight, wiped his face on his shoulder, sniffed and spat on the floor.  Stopped his wheezing.  “Fine,” he repeated, steady and snarling.  “Go ahead.”

He stood tense and silent through the next few blows.  The restraint clearly took immense effort, and Valjean soon came to regret having imposed more burden.   “I apologize,” he said, “I did not mean to interfere.  Take it however you like.”

Javert relaxed a little, but didn't immediately resume an attitude of dramatic suffering.

That was easily remedied.  Without any warning, Valjean did what he had hitherto avoided: he brought the lash down with the full strength of his arm, crossing over blood-filled welts that had already risen, slashing the flesh so that it bled free.

The scream made his ears ring.  Javert arched and contorted, twisting for near a full minute, in extremis difficult to watch.  When at last he went still, he was hanging almost limp, his weight borne by a death-grip on the belt in his hands.  He was sobbing with abandon.

“If you're ready, here is thirty-seven.  Not so loud,” Valjean begged, and aimed the stroke where the skin had not yet broken.

“ _Aah,_ ” Javert moaned, open-mouthed and soft, almost under his breath.  “I know.  My head hurts.”

“You’re worried about your _head_?  Thirty-eight.”  But he was careful again, and pulled most of his strength from the blow.

Javert jerked anyway.  “ _Ah!_ No-, no, you're right.  The pain’s monstrous.  Though- that one wasn’t,” he added.  “None of your _mercy._ Do not cheat.”

“Very well.”  Valjean hit him with force.  “Better?”

Javert wheezed helplessly.  When he could speak he nodded and said: “Awful.  It’s awful.”

“I told you,” Valjean agreed.  “It's a high price you pay for helping someone escape.”  Javert shuddered, and he had a sudden intuition.  “And you are almost paid up.  Forty.”

The lash drew blood, but it seemed to be the words that caused the biggest reaction: Javert nodded forcefully and wailed something into his shoulder that Valjean couldn't make out. 

It didn’t matter what the words were; they were not meant for him.  He went on calmly, no longer concerned by Javert's condition: though each blow still drew cries, they were of pain without distress, more catharsis than anything else.

During the last few lashes, he wondered whether he was imagining it or whether Javert was actually saying _Yes_. 

* * *

“ _Fifty.”_

Instantly, like magic, the knot in his stomach slipped loose.  He was dimly aware of one last flash of pain bursting over him, but next to his sudden lightness the pain meant nothing.  

“Let go.”  Valjean’s voice was far away, and echoed as in a church.  “It’s over.  Let go.”

Then he heard a hiss of impatience in his ear; Valjean was close to him and actually prying at his fingers.  “Let go.”

He unclenched his fists, and then was on the floor, on his hands and knees, feeling the world spin.  “I’ll take you upstairs again,” Valjean sighed.  “Come on, around my shoulders.”

He was floating, empty and incorporeal; he had no ability to move and saw no reason why he should ever move again.  “Go away.”  He dropped from his hands to his elbows, rested his forehead on the floor, and waited for Valjean to disappear. 

“Javert.  Let me help you, you need help.  Remember last time?”

Damn his persistence.  Javert worked hard to marshal the words that would send him away; the pain was almost too much to think past.  “Last time I needed to recover to get the rest,” he explained.  “But it doesn’t matter what happens to me now.”  He could feel the heat of Valjean’s body, still hovering close.  “Go away.  I thank you for your help with this, and now we are quits.  Go.”

Valjean did not move.  “I told you I find it disturbing to leave you suffering and bloody,” he said.  “Does my peace of mind mean nothing to you?”

“Not a thing,” he answered at once.

“I see.”  Valjean stood up. 

And Javert realized that, incredibly, he had been wrong: he _did_ feel a twist of regret.  "You shouldn't feel disturbed," he volunteered.  "You've done nothing wrong."

"I know that.  It's not-..." Valjean gave a soft huff of laughter.  "Never mind."

Then he understood: Valjean's eternally bleeding heart was giving him difficulty again.  Of course.  "Your concern is for me?"  It was odd to be the subject of the compassion that had always so irritated him.  "Then forget it.  I assure you that I am well."  He was aware that he did not present much picture of _well,_ groveling wounded in the dirt, so he insisted:  "Truly, injury notwithstanding, I am much better than before.  I have no complaints.  Truly."

"Truly," Valjean echoed, doubtful.  "All right - if you say so, I believe you.  Still, I would rather stay and help."

"No.  Go home."  It sounded harsh, so he added: "I mean you no offense, Valjean.  I just want solitude."

There was a long silence, during which it occurred to him that Valjean might well carry him upstairs and care for him by force, and he was powerless to prevent it.  But then, incredibly, Valjean deferred.  "As you wish.  So... I will go?”

"Yes.  Go.”  Again he sought for something to soften the bare dismissal.  “Go without fear," he added.  "Jean Valjean has escaped, and I will not hunt him again.”

“If you should see me in the street…?”

“I’ll greet you as Monsieur Whatever-you-choose.  If I greet you at all.”

A deep sigh – relief, he supposed.  He heard Valjean’s retreat to the stairs and then a pause.  “Um.  I hope this brings you your peace?”  Then he was gone.

It was time to put Valjean out of his mind and focus on returning upstairs to his room.  Later.  After he rested a few moments.

He rested.  Longer than a few moments; when he rose the sweat and tears had dried on his face, and the blood that had dripped down his sides was already sticky.  But he finally felt _clean_.

He started upstairs, and was surprised to discover that the journey was much more difficult without Jean Valjean to support him; the wall and the railing were a poor substitute and leaning on his battered shoulders was excruciating. 

But he proceeded.  When he reached first landing he looked back and saw that the floor and wall would need to be washed.  _It looks like you killed someone,_ he had laughed to Valjean last time, and now he wondered: what would he say if someone happened upon him before he reached his room?  Not the truth, certainly.  But he could not bring himself to mouth the lie _nothing._ He could say: _Nothing to worry about.  All is well._   That might puzzle an onlooker, but it was true.

Fortunately, however, he reached his door without encountering anybody.

The door was ajar.  And the lock was damaged.

Javert frowned.  Had he been robbed – again?  But there was nothing of value in the whole apartment!

He shoved his way in.  He cast his eyes around the room and saw that nothing had been disturbed – except the table.  That had now been piled high with pristine white cloths, a large hand mirror, and several jars of expensive medicine.  And a note, folded around some coins.

_Javert – I apologize for the door; fix it.  I am outside in the street, watching the candle I left burning in your window.  If you are certain you do not want help, blow it out and I will go away.  You know where to find me if you change your mind._

He poured himself a glass of water and drank it.  He had to clean the staircase; he would do that later.  He had to clean his wounds; he would do that later as well.  He also had to send Valjean a return note, directing him to stop breaking into people’s houses.  But for now, all he wanted was sleep.  It would be deep sleep, excellent sleep, better sleep than he’d had since before the barricade.

He blew out the candle and was asleep almost before he hit the bed.

* * *

**The End.**

A happy ending!  Woohoo!!!

Let me know what you thought of this.  Comments make me think, and thinking makes more stories.


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